Sunday, August 31, 2003

My Fifteen Minutes. Show up at Babbo on a Friday night without a reservation, and get seated right-away because 1) it's Labor Day weekend and 2) I'm on a date with Blondie, who always gets seated right-away.

The couple at the table next to us are obviously on a first date. Big guy, in his forties, talking, not always in his indoor voice, about his work. Cute girl, early thirties, quietly picking at her food. I notice that she keeps glancing at me. Is she flirting? Not appropriate first-date behavior, but flattering.

After the waiter has cleared our appetizers, she leans over to our table. "I'm sorry, but you're in movies aren't you?" I am certainly not in movies I tell her. She's skeptical. She thinks I'm Giovanni Ribisi. She knows I'm Giovanni Ribisi. I assure her that there is no way I am Giovanni Ribisi.

Later, when the check comes and Blondie is off powdering her nose, the first-dater leans over again, trying to get a look at my American Express card. "Oh, come on. You're him," she says. "I promise I won't make a scene. Just admit it." I remain stubborn on this point: I'm me, not him. Her date interjects, "Just sign one autograph." I refuse but she keeps staring at me, more happy that she's had dinner next to a star than upset that I won't admit to being Ribisi. She gives me a look that says she understands what it must be like to be a star.

As we leave, she tells the table on the otherside of us that they just had dinner next to Giovanni Ribisi. But I'm sticking to my story. No matter what anybody tells you: I was not Giovanni Ribisi in Babbo on Friday night. But I was famous as Ribisi for a few minutes on Friday.

Save the Robots. My friends were having this conversation Saturday night:

Sully: You're a robot.
Grasshopper. I'm not the robot. You're the robot. You love robots.
Sully: Man you don't know what you are talking about. You're a robot to infinity.

Hi-Fi. Saturday Night. It's boys against girls at the pool table in Hi-Fi, the bar that was Brownies and now has a jukebox so good that you can never hear any songs you want to play because everyone's favorite songs are in there, and they've already requested them. The girls are winning, and I've had too many glasses of Jameson's. It must be late because the crowd has thinned. It's just us and a few people at the bar. Some lady walks past the table on the way to the restroom, stops to scream her support for the girls team. She looks a bit like a crazy person but maybe she's just drunk. This happens twice more, and I decide she's both.

The lads lose, so the girls have to buy us drinks. Up at the bar we order shots of something toxic. A glass half-full with red-brown poison slides towards us, pushed by the crazy drunk. "I can't finish this. Here," she says. She's been sitting on a bar stool doing shots for a while. The guy next to her looks sloshed. She looks at my gang for a moment through her hair. Those eyes and her strangely pretty nose look familiar. It's Parker Posey. The guy next to her is Ryan Adams. He finishes his drink, and they stumble out the door together.